


I Fell In Love With A War

by fckingbloke



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Exes, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Break Up, his other siblings are canon-ish age though but it was never specified, mordelia is older because i didn't like her being canon age, she'd technically be 9 but i made her 13 so it was less weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fckingbloke/pseuds/fckingbloke
Summary: Simon and Baz have been broken up for months now, and Simon would like to think he’s a changed man. What happens when Mordelia invites him over for Christmas, telling him that Baz won’t be there? He should have known that children, especially those with Pitch blood in them, aren’t to be trusted.OrThe time Simon goes to the Grimm-Pitch manor for Christmas without Baz-- his ex-- knowing, only for Baz to show up.Based on a blog post:“My ex’s 13-year-old sister invited me to Thanksgiving dinner and y’all bet I’m going.My dad: There is no way in hell you are goingMe: If you think anything you say is going to keep me from my ex’s aunt’s apple pie you are severely mistakenTHE PLOT THICKENS:My ex isn’t even going to be there !!! Deadass they replaced him with me"Playlist for the storyhere!and the title is based off of a lyric in Mitski's "Pearl" which is featured in the playlist.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	I Fell In Love With A War

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my longest one-shot ever, and I'm surprisingly proud of it! Wasn't beta'd, and this is my first time writing in this style you could say, but I hope you enjoy it! I made a playlist that goes a long with the story, it's not Christmas themed or anything, it just conjures up the emotions I felt when writing and I think that the characters display. Feel free to listen while you read, or listen when you finish if you'd like!

# SIMON

We both knew it wasn’t going to last very long. I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point, we couldn’t stand the sight of each other. I’d reached a new low, the loss of magic would knock anybody down, but with it left every bit of confidence and self-worth I had. And I couldn’t watch him do it, watch him put up with me, throwing my life away on the settee in my flat as he tried to help without pitying me. But I guess, eventually, he couldn’t watch himself do it either; he no longer touched me, didn’t come anywhere near me than necessary. I knew what we had was fading away, and maybe we both realized it at that moment. We both saw how broken we were. It was gradual, it took months for it to finally cease. The roaring fire slowly dying out, down to a small ember in my gut. 

When it ended, we didn’t talk. We never tried to dance that dance, of trying to remain friends after the split. After all, we’d never been friends. We’d known two things, hatred, and fleeting love. We’d tried to romance each other, and we saw how it worked out. Neither of us wanted to go about a friendship, risking it falling back into our childish ways, hating and pining and being so damn frustrated with each other all the time. So we don’t talk. The last we spoke was when he picked up some of his things from my and Penny’s flat. A spare pair of pants and trousers or something of the like. But that was the last time I saw him, sometime in August. Penny mentioned him, but I never desired to see him in the flat. 

And yet, despite that, here I am. Hampshire. Outside of the Pitch manor on Christmas Eve, arriving much later than I’d said I’d be. I debated not coming for what felt like decades. I told myself I’d go to Penny’s for the holidays, but when she last asked, I refused. It felt odd imposing on her holiday as an adult. And then I’d sat in the flat alone for hours, telling myself I shouldn’t. It’s not normal to spend your holiday with your ex’s family. But I sat there, on the couch that I laid on for months, reading the email Mordelia wrote, asking if I would stay with them for the holidays. I thought it bold of her to assume I would be spending Christmas alone, but she offered because she missed me. And she knew he wouldn’t be here. I can’t say no to such a sweet-- intimidating, but sweet nonetheless-- girl. 

I’m here, I showed up like I said I would, I’ll stay like I said I would, and I’ll keep my promise to her. I may have hurt him, but I refuse to hurt her. It’s in keeping this promise that I finally lean in, knocking on the large door to the home. It opens rather quickly, a familiar face staring up at me, and a confused one looking at me at eye level. 

“Simon! You came!” She beams at me, and I know I made the right choice, even if it does feel a little weird to be here right now. I smile at her and she returns a bigger one. I look up and just as Vera starts to realize why I’m here, Mordelia cuts in. 

“I invited him, Vera!” And the elder of the two nods, she smiles at me softly before swinging the door open fully. 

“Come in, come in, it’s freezing out here.” She beckons me in with a motioning hand, and I follow, picking up my hastily packed suitcase. The three of us stand in the foyer as I take my coat off, Vera hanging it up for me. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I sheepishly apologize, kicking the snow off my boots, “I guess I forgot how long the drive down here is.” Mordelia excuses me and Vera turns away from the coat rack, rolling her eyes feigning annoyance. 

“Oh, don’t be, it’s good to see you, Simon.” I thank her when she smiles at me too, and for a moment I don’t feel so out of place. It’s not the same greeting I was met with when I showed up the first time, drenched in snow and unexpected. I’m wanted this time around, albeit not by the same person. 

“Mordelia, how about you take him up to the guest room he’ll be staying in.” She pats Mordelia on the back as the mentioned smirks at me again. It reminds me of her older brother far too much, but I smile back at her. “Thank you, again, for having me,” I rush out as the thirteen-year-old all but drags me away. She leads me up the stairs as I grab my case and follow behind her. 

She starts chatting about how excited she is for Christmas, how much she loves Christmas pud, Christmas crackers, and the like. At the end of the hallway, we stop outside of the guest room, the same room I was too afraid to sleep in the first time around. It brings back memories I hadn’t wanted to face. I knew they’d start flooding back to me the moment I walked through the front door, but I guess I was being too hopeful in thinking it’d be different this time. Stopped there, she pokes my arm, and stands on her toes. I lean down to let her reach me, confused. She’s always up to something, isn’t she? 

She whispers, “But this year, my favorite thing about Christmas is getting to see you so happy again.” Something tugs at my heart as I begin to whisper the same way she did, “Me too.” With that, I stand and ruffle her hair, she complains, but I see her smile as she pulls the door open. I take my things into the room, setting them on the small settee in the corner. She climbs on top of the bed during the time I start to unpack my clothes to get to my soaps and toothbrush. 

I try not to think about what she means, “happy again”. I’d visited a lot over the summer, and at the beginning, before things were bad, I had a good time. I’d felt at home in a way I never had outside of Watford. But as things got worse, he’d bring me around more. Something about trying to make me feel better, make me feel more at home, surrounded. I guess he thought it’d make me less lonesome. But in reality, all it did was show his family how undeserving of him I was. He tried so hard to make me feel better, trying to get me to play with the kids, let Mordelia torture me, and all I did was lay around his room. I’d hoped that they never noticed how different I was, but clearly she did. Even though I’ve tried getting back to the happiness I had, I wasn’t sure if I would ever be the same again. I thought it was a wonder they’d even want me here, moping around during the holidays. But I guess I have changed if somebody as dense as a preteen can see it. (Though, that’s to say she is the brightest kid I know, she’s something of an outlier.)

Here I am, just as it were those few times last summer. The only difference being him, his absence; and for a moment, I wonder how I ended up replacing him this year. Mordelia seems to read my mind, though, when she starts talking.

“Baz said he was going to stay somewhere else this year.” She sighs, melodramatic, and sounds truly despaired at the mere mention of her brother’s lack of presence. I sit down on the bed next to her, watching it dip as I press my weight to it. She looks at her swaying feet as she talks. 

“He said he wanted to get some extra credit work done for a few days at the end of the term.” I hum thoughtfully, having remembered that from an email she’d written to me. 

“And he said he was just going to stay with a friend for the holidays,” I turn to look at her and she meets my gaze, “Some friend of his lives in Birmingham, and Baz said he wanted to go with him.” Her gaze falls again to her feet, and for a moment I feel bad that she misses him so much. That is, until what she says sinks in. Something she left out of the email; that he’s staying with a boy in Birmingham. That he’s going to be with another boy. Anger flashes across my face for a second before I have half the mind to calm myself down. 

‘Delia must notice this, my silence, and she turns to me, putting her hand over mine on the bed. “I’m really happy you’re here, though, Simon!” I rip my thoughts away, trying to remember who I’m here for. It isn’t him, it’s for her, this family. She smiles at me, and I can’t help but return one. 

“Thank you for the invitation. I’m happy I’m here too.” She hops off the bed and swivels around to look at me, her eyes wide with excitement. 

“We still have time until supper, you should go play with Alaister! It’s been so long since you’ve seen him! And Eliza and Esme! I’m sure they want to see you too!” She turns to the door, stopping in the hallway and signaling me to come with her. I do. 

Mordelia began writing to me before we split. I want to say that he put her up to it, a ploy to get me out of my funk, but she’s just as capable of doing something as conniving on her own. She’d just started out saying how much she loved it when I came to stay, and it was nice. But when things got worse and he and I stopped talking, I assumed I wouldn’t be invited to the manor ever again, but she never really stopped writing to me. Asking me how uni was going, it wasn’t. Asking my plans for half term, there weren’t any. But it was nice letting her talk about whatever she wanted to. Hearing about a childhood I never had the opportunity to have. Maybe my intentions in listening to her were selfish at first, but they stopped being that way soon after. It was nice answering questions she had about Watford, having somebody look up to me. After the split, it became a motivation of sorts. 

But then she asked me to come for the holiday. I was confused, immensely, but she said that her big brother wouldn’t be coming home and that she missed me. I wasn’t sure if she actually knew that him being gone would make me more inclined, or if she was just trying to tell the truth, but I sat on it for a while. Where was the line drawn for us? Not talking seemed to be the only thing we agreed on when it happened, and although attending your ex’s house for Christmas may be crossing that line, he never made it clear. So that isn’t my fault, is it?

* * *

We find our way into the living space, the toddler crawling under the supervision of Daphne Grimm. Mordelia runs to her siblings and I take a seat next to their mother. She sends a soft smile my way and it’s easier to return one than not. 

“So, Simon, how have you been?” She greets me while looking at Alistair, the youngest-- and only-- boy. 

I’m in the middle of gathering my thoughts when she turns to face me, waiting for a reply, “I’ve been good.” She gives me a serious look. “Better.” She nods at that, looking relieved. 

The children call me over, and I realize how much they’ve all grown. Alistair was but a babe last time I saw him, just a small thing. Now he’s starting to look like his siblings, a more discernible face. The twins Eliza and Esme are growing bigger by the minute it appears, but they’re still nowhere near as poised as Mordelia. Their eyes brighten as they see me approaching their spot on the floor, playing and talking. Esme walks up to me first, looking around me, circling me. 

“Si, where’ve your wings gone? Baz used to spell them away, but where are they now? Who spelled them?” She babbles on about them, how she wishes she had wings-- I laugh at the thought. A little girl running around the Grimm-Pitch manor with dragon wings-- how she thinks my tail is pretty. 

“Penny magicked them away before she left. She’s been working on ways to get rid of them.” I tell the kids, whose attention is now all focused on me. 

“Why would you ever get rid of your wings! They’re delightful!” Eliza dismays at the loss of my reptilian half. 

I flash a grin at the children, walking up to them. “Well, they get in the way sometimes. And if I had wings getting in my way all the time, would I be able to do this?” I grab Eliza and swing her around, the children erupting into laughter as Ms. Grimm chuckles with them. “Simon! Simon! Quit it!” she giggles all the more and then I do put her down. The girls argue over whose turn it is, the spectacle of playing with somebody who can lift them easily. Alistair stays on the ground as bubbly as ever, speaking excited nonsense. 

We spend the hour before supper messing around. Swinging the twins around the room on my shoulders and trying to play hide and seek, although it quickly became a game of running around the room while the children ran away from me laughing. Alistair can’t quite run-- or walk for that matter-- so I’d entertain him while the girls all took a break from racing about the room.

Five months ago in the futile attempt to lift my spirits, I never did anything like this with his siblings. They liked talking to a fresh face, and I always listened to them, but I wasn’t active with them. Never fully checked in. Sometime between the breakup and the increase in talking to others, I made a decision. After we had split, I didn’t want to fall further down the rabbit hole I was headed. I knew how my loss of magick affected me, and I didn’t want his departure to worsen my despondent state. I actually began to take care of myself. I stopped drinking cider and eating crisps on the couch. I stopped wallowing in self-pity-- or whatever the fuck I was wallowing in. I’d decided I’d take up more of my time playing football. Something that didn’t involve laying on a settee all day watching whatever show came up on the telly. I even began to focus on my uni work. It took a while to get caught up, considering I’d been slacking for a long time, not bothering to show up. 

Mordelia’d write to me once a week, talking about how things were, how much she enjoyed me staying. She never saw me as somebody who had lost their magick, and their boyfriend, and their entire purpose. She saw me as somebody who didn’t have magick. Somebody who had their life ahead of them to figure out what the hell they were going to do. She never pitied me for a second, and I guess that’s how I had begun to view myself as well. For through her lens, I was a better person. And that’s to say I hadn’t changed into that person, but that I needed to find it in me. There’s a lot I needed to thank him for, and maybe him leaving was one of them. Where would I be if he continued to pity me? Where would I be if this cunning half-sibling hadn’t been there to allow me to see things from a new perspective? I sound as though I’m off the rocker, sure, but nonetheless.

I’m not sure where I’d be in that case, but I certainly wouldn’t be the person I am now, sitting in his family home without him, on Christmas Eve. 

“Kids, go wash up, dinner should be ready any minute now.” The kids don’t try to argue, but they let out a string of wails. The girls all leave and while watching them exit I pick up Alistair, babbling on the floor. We sit on the couch next to Daphne, her son cradled in my arms. 

It’s easy to watch a kid grow older, getting taller and taller, smarter and smarter. But we don’t see it when we’re adults. It seems like such an obvious concept, of course, you’d notice a babe growing much sooner than an adult. It makes sense. But as I look at the child’s mum and she looks at me, I can tell we’re only thinking about how much maturer the other looks.

“I’d like to apologize for being so late. I” didn’t want to come and make a fool of myself at my ex’s family’s home. I feel a right bit insane right now. “I didn’t want to impose. I’m sorry if my presence is a little… weird.” I don’t look at her while I talk, just letting her near infant son grin at me wildly as he grips my finger in his fist. 

“It’s all right. No need to apologize, I’m happy you’re here.” She sends motherly warmth my way, and I’m reminded how charitable it is that she does so, for she has no reason to be kind to me. She isn’t his mum, really, and he never really saw her that way. And yet, say they had a close relationship; She still has no reason to like me, let alone excuse me and make me feel better.  
Yet, here we are. 

“The children love seeing you.” She pauses then. Her face all screwed up in thought, the lines on her forehead creasing as her eyebrows raise. “Simon, I know that things are peculiar right now. Stop me if I’m out of place but if you don’t mind...

“I’m glad you’re here. And I don’t mean here as in our home. I’m glad you’re with us. I don’t know what happened over the summer, but I’m not daft. I saw something wasn’t right about you, and I can see today that things are different. It’s lovely to see.” She takes a deep sigh and looks down as she talks, much like Mordelia had. 

“You’re a part of this family. Even if you’re at odds with Basil, I know he still loves-” I cut her short, raising my unoccupied hand in protest. Her lips press to a thin line before she nods, breaking into a smile with me. 

I’m not sure why I’ve started smiling. 

“Thank you, Daphne. Really. It means the world to me, to know I have people to lean on. Thank you. For everything.” I rise to put the child I’d been bouncing on my leg back in his day-room bassinet. She stands as well, placing a hand on my shoulder. Before I know it I’m being pulled into an embrace. And I don’t back away from it. And in a soft, sweet voice, “He’d love to see you.”

* * *

I’d sat in my room thinking about it for quite a while. “He’d love to see you.” It wasn’t a shock who she was referring to, nor what she meant. But I tried to calculate the validity of what she’d said. Would he? Up in Brum with some bloke whom he could only have met within the last five months. Would he care? He’s clearly moved on. I guess I should too. It has me thinking, though; It’s clear that I’ve changed. I am no longer Simon Snow the failed prophet and I understand that, to some degree. But I’m not the Snow I once was, and after all that’s happened, can he continue to love me? I’m not the same person he fell in love with. 

There’s a rasp at the door and I all but jump at the sound. Vera. “We’re dining soon, I’d say get down here quick before the little ones consume everything in their sights, they have manners, but their stomachs trump all niceties!” She chuckles to herself and I hear her footsteps trail away. 

I rinse my hands in the bathroom adjoined to my own room and I head down the steps. Children at the table, Daphne starts setting out silverware that I’m quick to help her with. It feels awfully domestic at that moment. Helping mum set out the forks and knives while the cook and Vera finish up preparing the meal. Siblings at the table, waiting impatiently just to yam their food down. It takes me out of it. Reminds me I don’t belong. Setting down my last pair of cutlery, I excuse myself to the washroom, despite not needing to do any washing. 

Crossing the house, however, I run into his father. Malcolm Grimm has never liked me. I know this, and he knew it too. I was the apprentice of his enemy and then the unapproved lover of his son. He didn’t like me when I kept his son happy, and I’d bet he didn’t change his mind when I stopped making his son happy. Nonetheless, I’m a guest in his home, so I bite the bullet and I make absent-minded small talk with him before shoving myself into the locked washroom. 

The mirror reminds me of the grave mistake I’ve made, the decision to come back to this house. Shoving myself in rooms that I’ve shared with him. I thought, at the very least, it would be a ‘fuck you.’ Show the git that’s been tormenting me that I’m here and that I’m fine without him. But I’m not. I’ve cocked it all up and I find myself choking in his bathroom. But I’m not actually choking on anything, I’m hyperventilating. And there’s no reason for it, I remind myself. 

So I wash my hands, and I leave the cramped washroom. I take my place at the dinner table, and I tell myself that I needn’t worry. If things are terrible, I’ll leave just after boxing day. There’s no reason to work myself up over this, but I still find myself worried. 

Malcolm sits at the head of the long table, the food all set out in front of him in little rows. The children itching to start eating. Daphne sits at the other end and watches over the children. I’ve got a fizzy drink set in front of me and I take it to sip lightly, although the children are chugging their milk. We continue to talk momentarily, just about ready to dig into the food before us, when there’s a knock at the door. I turn to face it, but I’m not looking that way, and can’t get a good sight. Vera goes to open it but Mrs. Grimm tells her she’ll get it. 

I hear shuffling in the foyer and a conversation erupting behind me. Something with the words “Sorry. Is it okay? Thank you. It's been a while?” and my heart rate picks up as I wonder who it might be. Daphne picks up her volume, then, “Hurry and put your bags away, then come join us for dinner. I’m surprised you both came.”

I tell myself that it can’t be. That it isn’t. It could not possibly be. 

Daphne returns to the table as I hear footsteps heading up the stairs. I will myself not to turn around. I nearly ask her who it is, but I feel myself stopping short. Daphne and vera both return to the dining table, now with two additional plates and sets of cutlery. I luck out in not having to ask when Daphne turns to Malcolm, “Fiona is joining us afterall.”

That’s when I realize that tonight is going to be difficult. She didn’t say who else was with her, and nobody asked. My ears ring and everything goes dark and all I can focus on is the sound of the children’s utensils on their ceramic dishes. The sound of movement near the steps. Voices. Voices laughing. 

His laughter. 

I see Fiona first, and I nearly decide to bolt. Screw the suitcase in my room and book it out the front gate. But that would be immature. And although I’m quite often a dolt, I can’t do that to the people hosting me in their home. So I bounce my leg under the table and I try to ignore my heartrate. There’s not a load of room at the table, but there’s a decent sized gap between myself and the head, where Malcolm is. I weigh my options again, bolting sounding better and better every minute. Next thing I know, the cook is helping vera make place at the table for the two new guests. Fiona sits down next to me, and I realize I just might piss myself right here. 

I need a pint immediately.

On the other side of Fiona, he sits. I almost choke again, deciding we are far too close right now, considering I thought he’d be 250 kilometres away right now, not a mere metre. 

He doesn’t really acknowledge me, and it makes my skin burn. Mostly, I’m frustrated because I can’t tell if I want him to notice me, to call me out. To look at me. Shouldn’t he be angry? Or remorseful? He just looks so blank in the face. His eyes are empty whilst he pulls his chair out, smiles at his half sibling, at his stepmother. But he keeps his head perfect straight, his glance steadied. 

And almost as if he hears these thoughts, he sits down, looks passed Fiona, and straight at me. The smile falters, not that it held much warmth in the first place, but his expression is stonier than it was before. And for just a moment, the only thing I care about on this earth is to know what’s on his mind. I want to break that barrier he’s thrown up down. But I couldn’t before, and I can’t now. So I don’t do anything as he turns away, I just watch as his smile completely vanishes. 

He’s not cut his hair since I last saw him, and it’s longer than it ever got during school. It’s properly down to his shoulders by this point, but it suits. And he’s got this knitted jumper on, something new, something unlike him. For a second I think it could belong to a new lover of his. But that thought gets halted in my brain rather quickly. I look down at my lap. This is going to be a long dinner, I know it. And to make matters worse, Fiona, sitting smack in the middle of the entire affair, just glares at me. Not even in a hateful way. As menacing as she is, her stare isn’t that violent. Her bite is harsher than the bark. 

* * * 

Dinner comes and goes, and I manage to keep some semblance of manners while eating with everybody. Baz didn’t even eat with us. He sat at the table with an empty plate in front of him. Making conversation, barely managing to avoid my gaze. At best, it was awkward, at worst it was painful. It felt like a knife twisting into my gut, whenever he’d turn away from me. And I couldn’t steal glances that often on account of his terrifying aunt giving me hell every time I tilted my face in that direction. 

As soon as dinner ended he hugged his sister, and he ran upstairs. Said he wanted to unpack his things for now. Right. 

I help Fiona clear the table, and she doesn’t dish out any more of her staring at me. It feels better, having less eyes on me. We set the dishes in the kitchen to be washed, and the family heads to the living room. 

The twins are already arguing over who gets to get swung around first. I don’t have the heart to tell them I’m tired, so I grab the both of them, carefully swinging them about. They laugh, and I thank my stars that Malcolm Grimm isn’t here to see me throwing his children around like toys. He’d spell me to death. They scream and giggle, but rather swiftly tell me they're done for the night, they're tired and they want to go to sleep to see what they’ll get for Christmas. I’m thankful, I truly don’t want them getting sick on me, chundering their dinner. 

Mordelia sits down in a chair in the corner, next to Fiona. I swallow my pride as I head in that direction, taking a seat between the two. I only briefly think to worry I’m interrupting something, luckily I don’t. 

There’s a rasp at my door, and for a moment I believe the shy nature of it to be caused by Mordelia’s timidness, or politeness perhaps. It’s only as my hand is on the knob that I realize it is likely him, and I mull it over. I don’t have to open it, I tell myself. But I’m a guest in his home, and it leaves me no choice. The door swings open without an ounce of the subtlety his knocking possessed. I keep my stare pressed hard to my hand, ignoring the way he’s looking at me. I don’t believe I’ve managed to look at his eyes from the time he arrived. 

But then he’s stepping into the room and closing the door behind me and he’s looking at me, waiting for me to make the first move. Or, not really; As he’s already done that by showing up at my room, and I responded by opening that door, now we’re just waiting for the other to make the next move.

I betray myself when I finally peer up at his grey eyes. The tension in the room halts when his face softens and we speak over each other. 

“I’m sorry,” we confess in unison. He laughs uncomfortably and this restless feeling wells up inside me, almost like every thought escaped me when he walked in. Everything I had planned on saying to him at one point or another washed away. I sigh, trying to get it out before he can counter with anything. 

“I’m sorry I’m here. I cannot imagine you’d want to spend Christmas like this, and I should have thought this through. This isn’t appropriate, I get it. I can leave-”

“No,” he cuts me off and stops. I see the regret wash over his face as he catches the eagerness in his tone. 

“Don’t be sorry. Weird, it is, but I could have given them a heads up, let them know I was coming.”

Silence. 

“To be fair, though, my family lacked the foresight to alert me to the fact my ex would be here. So.”

I look out the window, at the yard and the frost on the glass. He’s still looking at me, but I already failed myself once by looking at him. I won’t allow myself to do it again.

“So, why are you here?” He doesn’t respond and I worry it’s my tone putting him off. “It’s your home, I know I should be the one explaining myself or whatever, but what made you change your mind? Thought you’d be with some brummie right now.”

I can see his eyes roll even without looking at him. 

“I wasn’t staying with him… like that. I never really had any intention in going with him. I didn’t feel like coming home and I couldn’t quite tell my family that, could I? I made an excuse.”

“All right, but you didn’t answer me, you know. Why are you here, at home? If you didn’t feel like coming?” I try not to be standoffish towards him in his own house but it comes out without me trying. He shifts his weight and my traitorous eyes fall onto him again. 

He sighs and turns away, walking to the window I’d been staring at. I finally get a good look at him, his back facing me. I can see his shoulders are hunched and his head is hung slightly. It’s weird, seeing a Pitch man look anything but stoic. I’m getting to him. It felt like this is what I wanted. For a long time I wanted to see him feel bad, but seeing it with my own eyes, it makes me want to reach out and hug him, to relax his shoulders and tell him I don’t mean it. Take the blanket off the foot of the bed and wrap it around him and pull him close. Tell him that he shouldn’t be remorseful. 

And yet. 

“I sat around my dorm room. My mate left and it was on my fourth hour of being alone I called Fi. We… we talked. And she said she was coming home, and I asked if we could ride together.”

I nod even though he can’t see it. He clears his throat and turns around, catching me looking at him. His eyes drag down my body twice over and I try not to let him see my face redden. He clearly has noticed the difference everybody has mentioned. 

It becomes a game of who can avoid speaking longest.

I busy myself with picking at the hem on my jeans, pulling at the fabric on the side of my thigh. And whether he notices or not, my hand freezes, seeing the shirt he’s wearing. His jumper’s come off at some point between dinner and now, and he’s standing in just a tee shirt. It’s an older one of mine. I remember when he took it, telling me I’m too big to wear it. Remembering how he evaded what he was thinking. You’re not thinning out over the summer as you were. You’re maintaining your weight now, and you don’t have any use for the clothes you reserved for the transitional periods from starving to clobbering. I remember how grateful I was for him not saying it, and how it made me so happy, I let him keep the damn shirt, despite it not going with anything he wore. Despite its complete lack of style, and his normal damming of anything that lacks it. 

He can’t know that I’ve just figured that out, there’s no way, and yet the look he’s giving me says the opposite. 

I can see he’s about to lose our game, opening his mouth like he’s at a loss for words; something that doesn’t happen often. I can see the cogs turning in his head when he shuts his mouth and turns his nose up. Though, it’s not in a way to be rude to me. I can see he’s trying not to embarrass himself, he’s building himself up.

Finally the words come out. “I missed seeing you.” He says it as if it’s no big deal, like he's breathing a weight out of his lungs. It’s not, though. That isn’t something you can just confess. Because without any regards to how I’d feel, he just unleashed a world of questions in my head. How long as he missed me? How badly does he miss me? It forces me to wonder if, and how much, I’ve missed him. If I had magic right now, I’d be well ready to blow up, to go off. 

“It’s good to see you. Even if… if things ended poorly between us.” He breaks my thoughts.

I press my lips to a thin line. I blow up. 

“You mean you ended things poorly.” I try not to sound upset, but it comes off like a pouting child. 

He sighs, his face hardening to that stoney expression. He shoves his hands in his pockets and begins to step forward. “Right.” 

Step. Step. Step. 

He’s in front of my face, not close enough that he’s in my space, but close enough that I wish he would close the gap.

“You’ll never understand how much I regret my decisions. I’m sorry. But I mean what I’ve said.”

Then, before I can form a response, he turns on his heels and walks to the door. He faces me before he exits, expression unchanged and hope glimmering in his eyes. I don’t stop him. He leaves. I shut the door. I sit on the bed. And I ask myself what the fuck just happened?

* * *

My hair drips water down my shoulders as I try to towel it off, to no avail. I thought maybe showering would get my mind off of things. Sitting on the bed, shirtless with nothing but pants on, I try to make sense of it all. 

I dig through my things to find a shirt, walking to the door. I round the corner and continue down the hall, trying to be quieter near the children’s rooms. I make my way to what I think is Fiona’s room and I pause. Not knowing why my feet brought me here.I bring my closed fist to the door, I hesitate. The hesitation isn’t even caused by the fact I’m not sure if this is her room, much rather the fact it probably is her room, and I don’t know what to say. But I’m here. And I can’t stop my knuckles from making contact with the door, knocking lightly. 

The door swings open in an instant and she’s stood directly in front of me, giving me a once over before she rolls her eyes. 

“Do I look like a couple’s counselor to you two?” 

I furrow my brows. She isn’t amused. I open my mouth to speak, though not sure of what to say, and she’s pulling me into the room, closing the door behind me, before I get a chance to talk. 

“Don’t bother, I’m sure you want to talk about him. Mordelia talked my ear off about how much you two have been talking, I’m sure you’d appreciate the words of an adult.” And suddenly it’s my turn to roll my eyes. 

She sighs though, expression less rigid and sharp-- less frightening-- and she points to a seat in that’s front of her bed. I sit, and she just glares at me. I’m not even sure if it’s meant to look threatening, but it still sort of does. 

“You know, you look a lot better than you did. For a while there, you looked like shit.” How kind. It’s the closest thing to a compliment I think I’ll ever get from her though, to be fair. 

I screw my face up in thought before finally saying something. “I just don’t understand him.” She pauses, and it’s hard to read her. For a moment I wonder why I even decided to talk to her in the first place. 

“Listen, I’m glad you worked through whatever you had to, but he didn't know how to help. Said he didn’t want you to resent him. Hell, I don’t think he understands himself most of the time. He didn’t want you to resent him, and he was just as self loathing as you were. He thought for sure that if he didn’t cut himself off, you would. It doesn’t make it less selfish, I know. But he never meant to hurt you.”

I look up at her, not knowing how to express the emotions that ring through me. For the majority of the time that’s elapsed since the break, I’ve just been wondering why. Why? Definitely, things were bad. But why did he do it the way he did? Why the timing? Why wait so many months before calling it quits? I thought maybe he was trying to double back on his feelings. Maybe he didn’t feel the way he thought he did. It’s mildly comforting to know that we were both confused. Maybe I wasn’t the only one that thought it was bollocks up, the way things went. 

“You know that, right? He never wanted to hurt you. He’s far too stubborn to admit when he’s wrong. But he loves you too much to do that, I can see it. The way the kid’s eyes light up around you. It's noticeable.” Her words hit me like a ton of bricks and I go stiff, not reacting. Not processing. 

I don’t spend much time in her room after that, she mostly just gives me a minute to sit in her presence, and I take it. Thinking. Trying not to think. 

After a moment I stand, nearing the door and reaching for the doorknob. I twist it before turning around, raising my hand as a parting gesture for whatever the fuck this conversation was. “Thanks, for… whatever. Everything.” 

“Yeah, anytime.” I step into the hallway, “Snow,” I turn around, “That was a joke, by the way. Not anytime. Please, I cannot handle the position of managing your relationship.” I smile, and her stoney expression wears off, grinning a bit. For a second the harsh lines she’s drawn in fade slightly, and she resembles the portrait of her sister I’d seen at Watford for all of those years. 

* * *

I fall asleep almost as soon as I leave Fiona’s room, and before I know it, it’s morning. Or, rather, just much later into the night. I slide my shirt back on, deciding I’d rather not wish to explain to somebody that I feel like I’m burning alive when I sleep with a shirt on. 

I tread lightly into the kitchen, though my steps are audible, they aren’t producing enough noise to stir anybody awake. I’m not even sure if they could hear anything I’m doing right now, with how big their home is. The house is so quiet it almost feels wrong being awake. 

That is, until I hear somebody knocking about in the kitchen. My pace quickens and so does my heartbeat. I slow down once I round the corner to see Baz making tea, taking the kettle off the stove and walking over to the counter where his cup lies. 

“Aliester Crowley, Snow!” He squeaks when he sees me. He nearly drops the teapot as he startles and I’m next to him with an arm on his back, holding him up, in seconds. 

“Merlin, you ‘bout spilled a litre of boiling bloody water!” I shout in a whisper.

“You’re the one sneaking up on people at five in the morning!” 

We both remain where we are, my arm cradling him and his free hand gripping the fabric of my shirt. He stands, I let go. We remain quiet. I see a smile that he fights back, and I feel a sly grin spread on my face. We stand up and we both continue to stare in silence. 

It’s then that the most beautiful sound emerges from his mouth. He lets his smile go and he laughs at me. He laughs with me. We both chuckle and stay like that; laughing and smiling and thinking about the ridiculousness of what we’re doing, and it feels like it's the only thing that's real. Hell, it is real. It’s real as rain. He finally sets the kettle on the counter and we both settle down. I don’t question him when he grabs another cup, presumably for me. 

I watch his movements, gaze at him grabbing the milk, reaching for the sugar. I indulge myself more than I had when he was in my room earlier. I’m not sure if it’s the wine that’s finally struck me or if I'm just that daft. I allow myself to take him in, fully. He’s still wearing my shirt, but now he’s got his posh pyjama bottoms on. His hair isn’t slicked back like he has it during the day. He lets it down after a shower, bouncy and full and dark. But he stops his movements for a second, and (with his lips turned up) he looks at my feet rather than looking up at me. I take the hint. I take a step back and give him space, once I notice how close we are to each other. 

“So, what are you doing awake and in my kitchen at such an hour?” he doesn’t look up as he begins to pour milk into his tea. 

“I dunno. I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. I thought I’d grab a bite but I got distracted with giving you a heart attack I guess.” He smiles again and I feel like I’m winning. I don’t know what I’m winning at, but I’m jammy about it. “How about yourself?” 

“Same as you, couldn’t sleep. Tea fixes everything, though.” Pause. “Would you like some?”

I nod graciously. Baz makes a fine cuppa, and I’ve never been known to turn down his offers. He passes me a glass and takes a sip of his own. 

It feels like, at this moment, that nothing is wrong. We’re two lads sitting in the kitchen enjoying tea before Christmas morning. 

“Christmas already, huh?” he nods. 

“Hard to believe it’s December. I think Mordelia’s nonstop mention of it has made it come sooner this year.” I try not to stare as I speak. He smiles again, a wide one, at the mention of his sister. 

“Oh she’s proper chuffed around this time of year. Christmas this, Christmas that. I wouldn’t be shocked if you told me she talked your ears off about all day.” I laugh, he’s right, she did. 

Then there's an awkward air between us. Like we both are hit with the realization that this ignorant small talk can’t last forever. I gulp half of my tea down in one go. He eyes me, and I watch him. He’s still not looked at me, not really looked at me, but I can tell he’s fighting it back. He wants to, he just can’t do it. 

He looks at my neck, then, and I know it's the best I’ll get right now. 

“Why are you here?” 

“Well, like I said, I wanted to grab some food, and I don’t know if you have a stash of food in your room, but I do not, so the kitchen was my first thought but--”

“Si.” He cuts me off. I almost jump out of my skin when I hear the nickname. It's a sure sign that I’ve finally gotten to him. And it’s not like earlier, he doesn’t have that same sad look on his face like he did in my room. (After I blamed him for the breakup. An arsehole move, really.) I think, this time, he knows what I want. He knows I’m avoiding the “big talk”. It’s easier to rile him up then it is to explain myself. It’s easier than apologizing. We both know that. 

I feel bad for messing around, and for a second I wonder if he’s upset about it. But that nickname… It gives me that feeling again. Like a victory. This is likely how he felt when I noticed him wearing my shirt. 

I concede, though. I answer him. I stop beating around the bush. 

I study my teacup as I talk. “It’s well odd, I know. I’m sorry about this. But, Mordelia invited me. And I couldn’t say no to her. I really thought about, trust me. But I couldn't. That and I’m a tad afraid to have her narky with me.” He huffs a laugh and I continue.

“When she started writing to me, I wasn’t sure if you’d put her up to it. But she just wanted to know if I was all right, considering how I’d been over the summer. So I wrote her back. Telling her I’m fine, and thanking her for her concern. She’s just a nice kid. But then I realized...” 

I stop to take a look at him, and he’s staring at me in anticipation. 

“She was one of the last real connections I had to you. And I guess I just couldn’t let you leave my life entirely. I’d been stupid. And I couldn’t live with that: letting my reckless shite be the reason you left me.” My voice trails off at the end, like my body won’t even let me get the words out. It feels good though, letting it out. 

Baz takes a step forward and he fixes his posture as he takes a deep breath. His nose is turned up and he looks tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix, though. 

“I really meant what I said earlier. I missed seeing you.” He sounds truly pained, and I can’t figure out why, so I turn away. I let him speak at me, rather than force him to look me in the eye. 

“Simon, I never meant to hurt you by leaving. I didn’t want to end things, especially not in the manner we did. But… I couldn’t watch you go through it all. Watching you struggle, and witnessing all of my attempts to help fail before me. I didn’t want to see it. And walking away from you was the worst thing I could have done.”

I busy my hands with my tea and I try to pay attention to what he’s saying, but he’s so close to me. I haven’t seen him in months, and now he’s right here. I never thought I wanted him to be so close during that time, but with him here now, it feels so right.

“I should have tried to support you more.” He lets out a loud breath and he hangs his head. “Simon, I am so sorry about it all. You didn’t deserve it.” 

I take another step closer to him, and I reach out to grab his shoulder. My body functions on auto-pilot, and I’m not aware of it until I do it, but it seems like the right thing to do. He lifts his head up and it looks like there’s tears in his eyes. 

“I’m… I’m sorry for making you feel helpless. I was going through the ringer, but I was selfish about it. And you didn’t deserve that.” pause. “And I missed you too.” 

He smiles a soft smile, one where his eyes wrinkles in the corner. It causes a weight to leave my shoulders, one I wasn’t aware I’d be so glad to have gone. 

“I forgive you.” I barely hear him say it, but when he notices that I did hear it, his face falls. He looks shy, afraid, like he’s waiting for my reaction. He looks nothing like Baz PItch. He just looks like a softened lover. I drop my hand from his shoulder, it hangs down at my side. 

“I forgive you too.” I try to sound confident, I try to reassure him. But the words come out all soft, weak. It makes him smile though, a devious grin. 

He backs away and begins to pour himself another cup of tea, but I can see the glint in his eyes now. 

I cock an eyebrow at him, laughing, “What are you so chuffed about?” he laughs too, then. 

“You missed me, too.” 

I roll my eyes. Cocky git. “Oh come off it, and pour me another cuppa if you wouldn’t mind.” His grin is residual. It’s plastered on so strongly I have half a mind to think it may be permanent, and what a sight that would be: Baz with an everlasting smile.

He passes me my cup after he fills it and I sip it slowly this time, leaning against the counter we’re standing at. He leans with me, and he studies my hands. They’re calloused more than they’d usually been -- Gripping weights, exercise machines. My hands are more worn than they were when I’d been practicing my sword work everyday-- I open my palm and he reaches out, before pausing, giving me a questioning look. I nod. We’re re-building whatever had fallen apart in the last six months. He touches the hand that’s free, following the lines, grazing over the callouses. 

“I worked out whenever I thought of you.” I blurt out of nowhere. Stupid mouth. Stupid brain. He laughs before I can get another word out to explain myself. 

“Wow you must have really missed me to get so fit.” He nudges my bicep with his elbow and drops the hand that had been in mine. I guess we’re both just spouting out every thought in our head, making up for lost conversation, lost time. 

“Oh, so’s it okay to joke about everything now?” I question him and he crosses his arms 

“I’d say it is okay.” He eyes me up in a way that’s so far beyond friendly. 

“Is this okay?” The gap between us disappears. He’s fully in my space now. He tilts his head, angling it to mine, looking at my lips. I mirror him. He brings his hand up to my jaw, cupping it. His gaze rises, we make eye contact as he waits for me to answer.

“Yes,” I whisper. It’s not instantaneous, at first. We both hesitate. We know what the other wants, but we can’t rush into it. And that’s how this is differing from our first kiss. We hadn’t known what the other wanted at all, we just acted quickly. It gives me hope. For what, I’m not sure. 

He makes the first move, connecting our mouths. It’s not wild, it’s slow and tender. The way you see people kiss in movies. It’s not meaningless, though, like those in films. We’re kissing, sure, but in reality we’re saying sorry. We’re apologizing for the time we lost apart, and for the time we wasted when we were together. We aren’t speaking, but our mouths are moving so fast, we’re expressing so much, that we might as well be. 

Baz drops his hand to my hip and I wrap my arms around his waist. I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without touching him. 

* * *

He leads me to his bedroom, and it all feels so juvenile. Sneaking around, trying to be quiet. It’s a lot more reminiscent of last holiday than I thought this visit would be. He crowds me against the door, leans down to nip at my neck, and I can tell he’s antsy. He’s far from patient right now, but then, so am I. Suddenly his room feel’s hot, and I’m burning up, but his hands; his hands are so cold I never want them to leave my body. Just as I arrive at that thought, though, he steps back. I give him a questioning look and he starts to tug at my shirt. I lift it off with ease, tossing it across the room, landing in a corner. I try to fumble with the buttons on the front of his shirt but he’s already back to kissing my neck. They’re more bites than kisses though. My head slams back into the wall as I try to finish the damn buttons on his shirt. If I wasn’t sure that he’d bite my head off for it, I’d tear the damned thing off of him. 

I keep my restraint, though, and I get it down around his shoulders, letting him pull it the rest of the way off. 

By now I’m sure he’s leaving little bruises on my clavicle, so I put my hand under his chin, raising his face back to mine. He bites my lip and I have to stifle a heady moan from coming out, lest his entire family hears me groaning while Baz Pitch slips me the tongue. He takes a short step back, now, and he reaches for my hand, I hold it out to him. We back up to the bed and we’re already kissing before we get onto it. Though he finally lays down, I climb after. Straddling him, knees on either side, one hand at his waist, the other by his head. I lean down just as he leans up, kissing my jaw where it meets my neck.

He gasps so quietly I barely hear it, feeling his breath fan across my ear. He continues to bite on my ear, slowly starting to grind his hips into mine. It’s not an unwelcome sensation, it’s just….different. I start to compare this to anything and everything we did over the summer, but I cut the thought short. I don’t want to compare. I want to live this, right now. 

I take hold of his shoulder, pushing him off and flipping us. I’m now straddling him, my arms on either side of his face, holding me up. He grinds up against me, trying to get any sort of friction. I lean down, kissing his neck. He groans a bit, a quiet hum escaping his throat, and he slides his hands across my back, stopping abruptly. Lowering his hips to the bed, he goes completely still. I back away, pulling off to look at him, to see what’s wrong. He pushes me back though, and he sits up. Taking me in. I’m fully confused now. And I think he’s lost the plot. 

“Snow, turn around,” he barks. 

“Simon,” I correct but I oblige. He rolls his eyes at the correction. “Baz, what is it?”

“Your wings…” Oh. Yeah. I guess I forgot. 

He gets quiet, nears me, and starts running his hands up and down my back. “Did you… did you get them removed?” He’s timid about it, trying not to cross a line. 

“No, no. Penny’s found a more permanent spell. Or, rather, a longer lasting one.” 

“Oh. All right.”

“Yeah. I don't know, it feels strange without them. They’ll probably pop out soon. The spell doesn't last that long.” he nods, but he doesn’t look at me or really look like he’s listening to me, he’s just rubbing my shoulder blades. 

It’s strangely erotic.

He shakes his head a bit, snapping back to the moment, and he brings one hand up my spine and to the back of my neck, pulling me back onto him as he lays down. My spine tingles, and I can’t help but wonder about how the last time he touched me like this was when I hadn’t had wings at all. 

I shudder at the touch and falter a bit, slipping just enough to press our hips together, and he moans, not very quietly at all. We both still, our mouths going slack for a moment. We pause, until we both start laughing, like giddy children. I pray nobody can hear us-- they likely cant, considering his room is in a far corner of this floor-- and we continue. 

His hands start to glide across my shoulder blades again, he drags his nails down my back and I try to keep quiet. I focus on how much I love his hands on my back. His hands on me. And almost as if he’s read my mind he whispers, “I missed you, I love this, voice starting to strain.” And I nod, not really knowing how to reply. But the weight of his words isn’t lost on me, and suddenly that pit in my stomach that’s been weighing me down is fading away. And with that I start heating up, I start moving faster. His hips are grinding into me fast and I’m frantic with my lips. 

I think we both realize the nature of our actions then, and we both sort of stop, panting and looking at each other for reassurance, yet again waiting for somebody to make the first move. 

“Baz?”

“Yes. Just-- yes.” And for the first time in my life, Baz is without words. Understandably so. And so I sit back, leaning on my knees, and I drag my hands down his front. His skin is cold, but so inviting. I stop at his navel and I see him jerk into the touch a bit. I look into his eyes, searching for hesitation, and nothing comes up. It assures me further when he nods. I unbutton his jeans, and He throws his head back a bit, even though I’ve hardly done anything. I pull his jeans down, and wriggles out of them. I throw them onto the floor and climb back on top of him. I push two finger into the waistband of his pants, inching them down, 

I slide my lips over him, and he starts to choke on his breath a bit, before he slides his hands into my hair, pulling. I don’t mind it, and I hum through him. He starts making this hissing noise, roughly whispering my name, tugging my hair. His hips shudder harder and he throws his head back. I slide off of him, standing up to tug my trackie bottoms off, and Baz tries to help, pulling on an empty trouser leg impatiently, but he doesn’t actually make much progress. After a moment of struggling, I get them off, throwing them on the floor. I focus on his cock again, rutting up against the mattress through my pants while I mouth at him. I swallow him down in a swift movement and he starts bucking into my mouth. 

He starts swearing under his breath- balling the sheets around him with his fist- my tongue circling the head. I lick a stripe on the slit where he’s leaking, and I cup his balls, His pupils are blown as he stares down at me, watching as his cock slides between my swollen lips, all while I’m rutting against the mattress, painfully hard. 

“Fuck, fuck, Sno- Simon, I’m gonna come!” He’s on the verge of yelling and I wish he’d casted a sound-proofing spell. I pull off though, and his hips are still rising off of the bed, desperate for my mouth. 

I crawl on top of him, basically sitting in his lap, and he starts to lick into my mouth, trying to last himself. I rest my forehead on his though, panting. 

“Simon.” He whispers. I hum in response. “Simon, I want to fuck you.” 

I genuinely can’t tell which affects me more; how blunt the statement is, or how breathy he says it, but my dick twitches at his words and I close my eyes. 

“Please,” I all but whimper, and he shifts into action, separating our foreheads and digging around in the bedside drawer. I start to vibrate in anticipation, not knowing where this was going but excited as to where it’s taking me 

He gets off of the bed, and I take his spot, face down at the head of the bed, on my knees, legs spread. I press my head into his pillow, inhaling his scent. He kisses my neck, and works his way down. Lips leaving wet marks down the tawny skin of my back. He bites my shoulder blade, and I’m beginning to wonder if I should thank Penny for spelling them off for so long. I arch into his touch, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, blanching the skin. His tongue makes a stripe down my back, and he pauses for a second before his tongue makes contact with my hole. I shudder, my hips gyrating between the bed and his mouth. I can’t get enough of his touch, gasping and trying to remember where the hell I am. 

“Fuck,” I groan and he takes it as a sign: as much as I love... this, it should be moving much faster lest I end up spent before he’s even in me. 

He slicks his index finger and pushes it in, and it’s like I forget how to breathe. I push my hips back against it, trying to feel every inch of his freezing cold digit. He picks up the pace, and it’s clear that tonight that speed is not an indication of intimacy. Soon he has two fingers in me. The stretch burns, but then he crooks his fingers just right, and my mouth goes slack, and fuck, fuck, shit. It’s so intense, my entire body reeling. “Oh god,” I breathe helplessly, panting, trying to get oxygen in, but the air feels fiery and smells musky, and he licks around his fingers. I shove my face further into his pillow in an attempt to muffle the noise, my head spinning. The pleasure of his tongue and fingers both in me making me unable to think. He keeps his fingers fucking me until I’m used to it, almost trembling as his fingers repeatedly press against my prostate.

“Baz, it’s now or never.” I’m painfully hard now. 

I let out a heady moan as he removes his fingers, and I brace myself as he positions himself on the mattress, preparing myself to have my face shoved into the bed the whole time, knowing how fucking loud I am. 

Baz wraps his arms around my middle, then, and I raise myself up a bit, my back pressed to his chest. I’m confused for a moment, but not complaining about the contact. He bends down to my ear, his hand gliding up and down my side, fingers grazing the skin  
“Lay on your back. I want to face you.” I nearly give out then, the intimate nature of what he’s saying. I nod though, not really thinking, and I turn around and lay on my back, legs raised. 

We fumble for a moment before he reaches for the lube again, on the bedside table nearest to us. I can’t keep my hands off of his skin, and Baz grips my hips, pressing in while I hook my ankles behind his back. The first movement is fucking agony. I wince and he raises an eyebrow at me. At the same time though, I can’t get enough of it. I take a deep breath and he slides the rest of the way in. He’s holding still, waiting for something. He must know, I dunno how but then I’m no expert. I’m just getting more uncomfortable. I roll my hips forward a bit and he responds straight away. One minute he’s all soft touches and a few kisses later and he’s making me writhe on the bed, my nails digging into his back. Guttural noises escape his throat with every movement of his hips. 

Baz starts biting me, and I know I’ll wake up with a tender neck, bruised shoulders. And, really, I should be a lot more cautious with letting a vampire bite my neck, but I know he won’t do anything. Here, right now, he’s stroking me off as he’s thrusting into me, lost in the curve of my shoulders, the bend of my neck, and he’s biting into the freckled skin where my neck and shoulder meet, and I turn my head away, shoving it into the pillow. 

I grasp at him, pulling him in and trying not to scream his name, praying the bed isn’t shaking too much. Just when I give up any hope he’d kiss me, he bends down and smashes his lips on mine. His upper lip is salty, and he’s just barely perspiring. He parts from my mouth and I angle myself closer to him. He’s biting my earlobe when he starts chanting “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” in my ear, whispering it hoarsely. He thrusts harder and deeper and that heat is pooling in my stomach, a familiar ache in my entire being like my nervous system is about to blow up.

I’m bubbling over and I start to babble at him, begging him. I don’t even know what I’m asking for – he does though. He palms at me, his hand between us, and he’s stroking me and fucking me at the same pace. I’m done for.

I start spilling over Baz’s hand, as he grunts into my ear. He starts nipping at my neck, his movements frantic and quick, slamming into me while I ride my orgasm out. He starts coming himself, his hips jerking through it. He collapses next to me, and we lay there, breathing for a moment. He drags his lips down my neck, I know it's red and raw, and the action’s almost an apology for the bruising, but I don’t tell him to stop biting me, and I know he won’t. 

* * *

It’s only been an hour or so since I’ve left Baz’s room, but I can already hear voices down the hall, the family preparing to open gifts, the children buzzing. 

I wait in my room for a moment, pausing to assess myself; Checking to see if my hair’s a mess, if my shirt is on properly, if I’m due for another shower. I think I’m fine, though, so I slide down the steps, b-lining for the kitchen. 

I snake around the children, around Daphne and Vera, finding my way to the tea. Normally I could go without it, but after that impromptu work out session and not getting much sleep afterwards, I’ll take any caffeine I can get. I bump into Fiona while grabbing a glass and she snorts. I turn to look at her, a light streak in her hair falling in front of her eyes. Her laughing doesn't let up, though. 

“What are you so chuffed about?” I ask, the joke lost on me.

She looks away, then, “Nothing, really.” She takes a step forward, glancing around at the family in the next room. “Maybe try being a little more conscious of how… precocious you are nextime, boyo.”

It takes me all but a moment to realize what she’s talking about, and I nearly drop the mug in my hand, paling and eyes widening. 

“I-” I start, not having a response prepared. I thought we were quiet. Damn Baz and his damned mouth. And hands. And...other things.

“Forget it. I shouldn’t have been awake anyways. I’m glad you two… talked.” She winks. 

And though I’m thankful for her brushing it off, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look her in the eyes again. I pour myself some tea, offering the kettle to her, she takes it silently. 

“Seriously, though. You two are good for each other, even if you never care to see it that way. If you two go about this again, just, for my sake if no one else’s, appreciate each other. Talk to each other.” I nod, smiling into my tea for no real reason. This family is far too gracious to somebody they wanted dead a year ago. 

Baz walks in then, seeing the two of us prompts him to raise an eyebrow. 

“What are you two talking about?” He says, reaching around us for a mug for himself. Fiona and I laugh, unsure of what to tell him. He just keeps his brow raised, but I see the corners of his mouth twitch up. Fiona finishes making her tea, pouring milk into it and stirring. She gives us a once-over before drawing her mouth into a line, the friendly demeanor fading back into her usual one, and she nods before heading out into the living room. 

Baz still looks confused, and as soon as Fiona leaves the room I step behind him, wrapping my arms around him. He startles at first but relaxes into it. Suddenly things feel okay between us. I know that things aren’t going to be hunky fucking dory, I know this will all take time. That, while we might have begun to heal the wound that was separating us, we still need to figure out our own shit. The shit that led us there. He might not want to be my boyfriend right now, we might have to take this slow. But standing in this kitchen, his kitchen, with my arms around his waist and my nose pressed into the back of his head- my nose filling with cedar and bergamot- I realize I don’t mind waiting. I don’t mind taking it slow. 

Baz reaches around, hand touching the back of my neck, and it stirs me from my thoughts. I think he heard what I was thinking, and I’d ask him so, but he'd probably make a joke about how he could feel the steam coming out of my ears from my brain overheating. And I wouldn’t mind that joke this time around.  
He turns around though, and he kisses me. It’s short and it’s sweet and it's the best thing I could ask for. 

He cracks a smile then, “What did Fiona say to you, actually?” I grin and his eyes widen, his smile turning into a sneer aimed at his aunt. 

“Simon Snow if she told you anything about what I’ve said to her…. That’s it. I’ll never confide in her again.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, “Don’t worry. She didn’t tell me anything like that.” His face screws up, clearly still confused and unamused. I lean in to whisper in his ear, “She said we’re too loud in bed.” I pull back and his eyes are wide. I laugh again and I pick up my mug, heading to the living room with his family. I let him steam in the kitchen.

I stand in the doorway, watching Mordelia open a gift while her little siblings wreak havoc with wrapping paper strewn about the floor. Daphne and Malcolm are busy trying to watch their kids while also keeping the mess to a minimum. I’d say they’re sort of succeeding. Fiona eyes me from the corner, and when Baz comes in from the kitchen, placing a hand on my shoulder, she rolls her eyes. I can see her lips moving from across the room, and I assume she’s arguing with Baz. It’s funny, though, watching their furious bant. Vera looks over at us then, and she frowns at Baz and Fiona, though I’m pretty sure she, like everybody else, is mildly terrified of her. And considering she suspects Baz of being a vampire, she’s mildly terrified of him too. But she keeps her attention on Baz, and when she notices his hand on my shoulder, she smiles. 

I turn my head to face him as much as I can without turning around fully. “Merry Christmas Baz.”

He squeezes my shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Simon.” And just being there, in that living room that’s been done up for Christmas, and having him leaned against me, him telling me merry Christmas, everything feels okay for a second.

* * *

Christmas and Boxing day come and go, and Baz’s family doesn’t mind the two of us figuring things out. Daphne spent most of Christmas day just looking at the two of us, smiling, and though she might not be the most motherly figure in Baz’s life, she’s one of the closest things in mine right now, and it means a lot. 

Baz says he feels bad about not having a gift at the ready, which is typical of him. He’s upset he didn’t have the foresight to see I’d be there at his family’s home for the holiday and that we’d miraculously make things up to each other. I tell him it's no big deal, and it really isn’t. Mostly I’m just glad we’re talking again; He’s like a breath of fresh air, and going without him is suffocating. I’d say the time we spent together in the kitchen and his bedroom that morning was as nice a gift as any. 

Speaking of which, we’re both relatively sure nobody heard us in his room. Though Fiona gave the two of us a headache about it, nobody else has mentioned, or at least nobody’s given us face about it. 

We spent Christmas night in his room, not really doing anything. Not talking, just holding each other, touching each other. Breathing in the other’s scent. It was comforting. Feeling that want again; it’s like the spark is back. We aren’t walking on eggshells right now. If I want to kiss him, then I ask if I can kiss him. If he wants to kiss me and I’d rather just hold his hand, I tell him that. 

On boxing day we walked through the woods that we’d been in last Christmas, and I wasn’t sure if I could do it. It’s one thing to think about last year. It’s an entirely different thing to go back to the same place you were. Standing in the barren trees, I felt hot. It felt like the flames were licking me like they were that night. The night I thought Baz was going to kill himself. The night everything I’d ever thought about him changed. I stood there in that forest and I kissed him again. I kissed him whenever I started getting that helpless feeling like I did last year. And everytime, he reassured me that everything was all right. And it was. 

The next day we all packed our bags and set out to go home. Mordelia promised to talk soon and Daphne hugged me and wished us well. Malcolm gave us both a glance and a wave, and honestly I don’t think he’ll ever budge. Fiona told Baz to ‘get his shit together’ and that’s when he realized he needed a ride back to Fiona’s house to get his car. 

I offered him a ride, following Fiona, and that’s where we are now. He’s sat in the passenger seat, complaining that I’m a terrible driver every five seconds. We’re somewhere near Hounslow when he turns to look at me, turning the radio down a bit. 

I’m prepared when we starts getting serious. 

“I need you to know that I never wanted to hurt you.” He mumbles. “You’re a git sometimes, but I won’t ever hurt you like that again, Simon, I won’t.” It’s one of those things that goes unspoken with Baz; apologies. He doesn’t say sorry unless he’s really cocked something up. And just hearing him admit it lets me know he won’t ever do it again. 

“I won’t let myself get that bad again. If I do, I’ll let you help me. I promise I won’t push everybody away.” 

He reaches his hand out to the centre console, and clasps mine with his own. “I promise,” he says, “that I’ll help you without backing away. That I won’t let my irrational thoughts get to me and keep myself from trying harder.” 

I turn to him between looking at the road, smiling. 

“Truce?”

He glares through a grin, “This isn’t going to be eighth year all over again.” He pauses and squeezes my hand, the pad of his thumb brushing the back of it. “But, truce.” 

* * *  
Baz decides to follow me back to the flat. He said he’s just going to stay for an hour or so, but I know he’s just saying that so as to not cross a line. We both know he’ll likely stay for longer than an hour. I don’t even know what we’ll do, considering we’ve spent the past 50 hours in each other’s bubbles already. (Maybe if Penny isn’t home….) And while I know that’s a terrible thought, I start to think he’s thinking the same thing, as we walk up to the flat together, his hand in mine, he pinches the skin between my thumb and forefinger, and he only does this when he’s keyed up. 

We get to my door and he drops my hand, glancing at me. I stop to turn to him, and he walks up behind me, places his mouth on my neck while I search for the key. I nearly drop my keys on the ground twice, with his tongue circling the nape of my neck, his teeth threatening my ear lobe. I finally get the right one and shove it into the lock, twisting the handle, trying to remember when Penny said she’d be home. We walk in, I throw my keys onto the sofa and I back Baz into the door, shutting it with a slamming of the wood. My lips find his and though it’s cooling, that doesn’t mean it’s not heated. I feel a slight movement in his hips, pressed up against mine. I bite his lip and he gasps, hand flat against my back and pulling me. Pulling me in. I let him. 

His tongue is circling mine and I start to think we might end up shagging in the bloody doorway before I hear a voice call out from the direction of the bedrooms, but Baz doesn’t stop, and I don’t prompt him to. 

“Simon? Where did you go for Christmas? Did you change your mi-” Her voice keeps on getting closer and Baz doesn’t attempt to pull away, so I do. But it’s too late, and when we’re pulled apart, a string of saliva connecting our mouths, Penny is in the room, shrieking. 

“Merlin! You two could give a girl a warning for Gods’ sake!” 

Baz smiles, “Nice to see you, Bunce.” 

Penny doesn’t even look surprised to see him, she just brushes it off like Of course Basil is here! Why wouldn’t he! Just because she’s the type to expect this sort of thing. She doesn’t look surprised, just more annoyed that Baz is slipping me the tongue in the doorway of our shared flat. 

“Well… How was your Christmas, Simon?” Penny still looks annoyed but I can see happiness somewhere in her expression. And I don’t even know where to begin in detailing the Holiday I’d had.

# THE END

**Author's Note:**

> In case you couldn't tell; I had no clue how to end this bad boy so it is VERY ABRUPT. My writing in this is so choppy, I apologize, but it not being beta'd is wreaking havoc all over the place. I'll go back and fix things probably, but yeah! I just really wanted to get it out there!


End file.
